


Princess

by SashaPennington



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Staphne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 03:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19054381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaPennington/pseuds/SashaPennington
Summary: Teenagers. Hormones. It's been a confusing week.





	1. Couch Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Not only is this the first fanfic I've wrote in a long time, it's my first ever for this fandom. And I was sick while I wrote it. (I don't even watch Scooby Doo.) Apologies if it's ooc.

It's Shaggy's fourth day without getting high. He's fidgety, itchy, and antsy. None of this is out of the norm. He's irritable, too, though, and it's putting the others on edge. It wouldn't be so bad if they weren't working; if they could separate, give him some space, he could get some bit of relief. 

When the bad guy they're chasing gets away, fingers are pointed all around. Daphne tries to blame him and Scooby, saying that they weren't fast enough. It'd be enough to confuse him on most days; he's never been too slow to get away from danger. Fred's even about to defend them. Too late. 

"Yeah, well, if someone wasn't too worried about what shoes she has on."

It wasn't the worst thing he could have said. Even high, he could've came up with something more hurtful. He had smacked the broken heel from her hand as he said it though, clearly startling her. She flinched, but it didn't stop him. He towered over her, his height cowing her. For the first time in a very long friendship, he frightened her. It should have satisfied him. It didn't. It made him angrier. 

With a 'hmp', he turned his back and left, Scooby on his heel.

After two hours of letting him cool off, she came to him. He had expected Fred, maybe even Velma, but the princess herself knocks on his garage door. He sits down the game controller after glancing up to see who it is, obviously still irritated. Scooby makes a wise exit then, creeping out of the open doorway. 

"Shaggy?"

It shouldn't matter that he hasn't had pot in days, or that Fred's dumped her again (or is it the other way around? He can't remember). He could tell by the glimpse at her that she's sorry. She sits down on the couch beside of him, awkward and unsure. Out of everyone, it's him she spends the least amount of time with. 

He knows that he should apologize. His shoulders slump; he gives in. 

"Hey, Daph. I'm real sorry 'bout earlier. Just had a bad day, that's all."

A warm, manicured hand goes to his bare knee. He covers it without putting too much thought into it. He's calloused and a little dirty, and his tanned skin looks odd on top of her. Odd, but not bad. 

"I thought maybe this would make it better."

In her other hand she has a joint, wrapped and ready for him. He takes it instantly, thanking her. It's lit and in his mouth within seconds. He inhales and exhales deeply, relaxing into the couch for the first time in what feels like a month. His eyes close and his knees spread. Better than a Scooby Snack. 

"You know, Shaggy, I'm sorry, too. Guess you're not the only one who's had a bad week."

Fred dumped her then. 

He opens an eye lazily to look at her. She's been crying. It makes him feel worse, but he knows it's not because of him. He closes it, thinking that she's still pretty hot, and sighs. Fred's a great guy, but sometimes he just can't understand him, especially when it comes to mysteries and Daphne. Hell, women are mysteries, the redhead beside of him a major one.

"It'll get better, Daph."

He pats her on the knee twice then, leaving his hand there to rest. Her pantyhose are thin; her skin is smooth beneath. He squeezes once, twice, then relaxes. He's dozing off when she moves. He hasn't slept in days. 

"Hey, Shaggy . . . Do you think that I'm . . . I don't know, spoiled?"

His eye opens again to look at her. It occurs to him that his hand is still on her; she hasn't moved away from him. He sits up slightly to try to wake up some. It wouldn't do any good to fall out with a bud on him. His parents were pretty angry last time. Other than that, she looks pretty serious. He doesn't want to hurt her feelings again.

"Spoiled? Nah. Why?"

He knows why; he would be willing to bet that Fred's called her as much lately. She doesn't take anything anyone else says to heart, really. Not even her parents get under her skin anymore. At nineteen she's hit a 'fuck all' attitude that he could really appreciate if it didn't include his own opinion. He has trouble admitting to himself why that bothers him though.

"Freddy said. . . Well, he called me a pillow princess."

If not for choking on his own spit, he could laugh. He rubs his neck, uncomfortable. He almost suggests her talking to Velma instead, but part of him holds the comment back. He knows that he'd never have a chance with her. She deserves better than Fred though. Or Fred deserves better than her. Or maybe they do deserve each other. It depends on the day, really. All the same, it isn't any of his business, and he really should send her in a different direction. He is not the person to be having this conversation with. Yet here she is, vulnerable and sexy, and he can't bring himself to stop her. Not after scaring her.

"I mean, sure, I don't like to . . . you know. . . with him, but that doesn't mean -- it doesn't make me -- he doesn't even do that a whole lot, you know? It's like pulling teeth to get him to."

He throws his hands up and presses his back into the worn fabric. The joint falls to his bare foot, burning it. He jerks away, grabbing the bud before it can do any major damage. He puts it on the cig tray next to his console. He cradles his foot, blowing on it. The damaged area is small, but it'll scar. Daphne hovers over him to get a look at it.

"That looks like it really hurts. Do you want me to get something to put on it?"

The moment is enough for him to forget what shocked him in the first place. She puts cream on it, attempts to bandage it, gives him some useless tidbit about a celebrity with a nasty burn that looks ten times better these days. He enjoys her babying him. Fred never lets her anymore. She obviously gets off on it. 

When he raises his shirt to show her the scars on his stomach, she gasps. When he explains that it's from falling asleep with a lit one, she scolds him. It's embarrassing and a little annoying, but he lets her do it. She seems a little better for being able to. 

When she tentatively touches the spot just above his navel, she asks if it hurts. He shakes his head. His hand catches hers, holding it there. 

"Daph? If you are, there's nothing wrong with it."

He shrugs. She studies him for a moment. Whether it's because she's trying to remember what he's talking about, or because she's simply weighing his words, he isn't sure. Finally she nods.

"Thanks, Shaggy."

They sit in silence, each regarding the other. He doesn't let go of her hand; she doesn't retract it. The console kicks off and the cable switches on. They watch reality shows together while he gets high and she considers her life choices. Eventually she ends up leaning against his side. He has an arm around her waist. Her face is pressed against his side. 

She smells of honey and expensive perfume, and it's as intoxicating as the weed.

He swallows. He's been with women before; he's been chased by monsters. But the next words out of his mouth are the most horrifying he's ever spoken. 

"If Freddy doesn't want to take care of you, Daph, I could."


	2. No Cigar

She lays back on the couch with more ease than he's comfortable with. He wonders, not for the first time, how often her and Freddy have fooled around. How many times they've done more. He's been jealous for as long as he can remember, but it isn't in his personality to make a big deal of it. She isn't his. She could never be his. 

Yet here she is on her back on his old, beat up couch. 

He moves on top of her nervously. The jitters are no longer from withdrawal. He doesn't press his weight down on her. He keeps himself propped up on his arms, avoiding eye contact with her. It doesn't seem fair that he's so anxious and she's -- what? If anything, she seems eager. 

He reminds himself that he's been with others. She's special, but her anatomy is the same. He doesn't think about living up to Fred. There's no way in hell that he ever could.

Except Fred rarely gives her what she wants. She's just told him as much. 

He gets a grain of confidence. He had been in her face earlier, panting and glaring and being unlike himself. She had been afraid of him. The kiss pressed to her forehead is an apology, something he wouldn't be able to express with words. He isn't good with them. He pulls her headband off gently, placing it on top of the couch; Fred had given it to her for a birthday, if he recalls. A hand goes to her hair, tangling in the red locks. Holding himself up with one arm is easy after years of being a gymnast. He focuses on forgetting who he's about to be with, instead keeping himself in the moment. It won't do any good to dwell on the fact that she's in love with one of his few friends and this will probably never happen again.

She turns her neck to the side so he can kiss it. His hands run up her legs slowly, pushing beneath her dress to raise it. She lets out a quiet, breathy moan of his name. It's enough to spur him on. He had almost asked if she's sure. 

He moves to the lower end of the couch. He pulls her boots off for her. She raises herself up on her elbows to watch him. Starting at an ankle, he kisses his way up, stopping just above her knee. From there, he licks his way up to her inner thigh. Her fingers tangle in his hair. She loses herself slightly, forgetting to be quiet. 

If Scooby wandered back in, they didn't notice. 

He teases her, blowing air on her panties. She yanks impatiently. He grins and sits up quickly. She's red beneath him, cheeks flushed and chest heavy. He pulls her panties down slowly, tossing them to the garage floor. He would take a picture of her this way if he thought she'd let him get away with it. It's enough spank material for a lifetime. 

She doesn't try to pull her dress off, and he doesn't do it for her. He bends, teasing her again. She whines his name; he chuckles. She has a landing strip. His long fingers run over it, almost lazily. He kisses her slowly, starting at her hips. From one to the other he makes a trail, then moves downward. He kisses the soft curls, nuzzling them. She smells sweet. Knowing her, she took a shower after they got done with their work for the day. 

He kisses down the slit, three slow kisses, then back up. She moans again, tugging harder on his hair. Her long legs wrap around his back. His dick is hard in his shorts, pressing the seam to be taken out. It goes ignored. 

After the third time he kisses his way down, it's his tongue instead of his lips that makes the trip back up. She pushes her hips down, trying to get him to push into her. Instead, he plays with her clit. He reaches beneath the couch to grab a bottle of lotion he keeps hidden there, smearing it onto his fingers without her noticing. She's begging him to fuck her -- with his tongue or his dick he honestly isn't sure -- when he presses a finger against her asshole. She tenses slightly. He waits for it to pass, thumb massaging her clit. When she presses down on his finger, he takes it as a pretty clear sign. 

He has three fingers in her ass and his tongue in the front when her cell goes off. 

She tells him breathlessly to ignore it. It's on his stand though, between the bud and the controller, and he can see a picture of Fred lit up. He says as much without thinking. She's up instantly, answering it with her dress still askew. 

"Uh huh, gotcha. Sure thing, Freddy. Be there in a few."

She pulls her boots back on and stands without so much of an indication of what had just happened. She straightens her hair before carefully putting the headband back on. She looks beautiful.

Shaggy feels worse than he had an hour before, blown off and discarded the moment Fred gave her any bit of attention.

"Come on, he says Velma knows who the mystery man is. They might have solved the case!"

He nods, not really considering her words. She's out the door in seconds, expecting him to follow. He sighs, his head leaning against the back of the couch. His breath smells of her. The couch smells of her. His brain smells of her. 

The affect of the weed has worn off.

"Maaaan."


End file.
